


Drifting

by lyricalballads



Category: Newsies (1992)
Genre: Dreams, Gen, Ghosts, mysterious vibes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:02:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25964800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyricalballads/pseuds/lyricalballads
Summary: Every night Skittery drowned in the harbor.
Kudos: 3





	Drifting

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on fanfiction.net on 10/31/2011 and is based on the 1992 movie.

Every night Skittery drowned in the harbor.

Well, not exactly, since it was only a dream he had every night, but it was a pretty realistic dream and Skittery dreaded going to sleep these days, because he knew the moment his head hit the pillow he'd be surrounded by water. It was icy cold too, cold enough to freeze the breath out of him, and he'd try and try to struggle out of that water, but his arms grew heavy and his lungs were burning and he just wasn't strong enough and—

Skittery woke up gasping.

The harbor was gone; instead he was in the same rickety bunk he slumbered in every night, perfectly dry and dead tired as usual. Old Kloppman moved through the beds, pausing every now and then to shake a boy by the shoulder or tell him to get up, get a move on, there's papers to be sold, though he completely bypassed Skittery and made a big effort to rouse Specs and Dutchy from sleep.

Skittery sighed, partially from grogginess and partially from relief that he wasn't drowning, and he ran a hand through his tangled, matted hair. When was the last time he had a proper bath? One day ran into another, but he was pretty sure he had been avoiding the washroom ever since that spooky dream started coming.

The last thing he needed was more water.

He yawned and forced himself out of bed, rolling off the top bunk in a way that kept him from falling flat on his face. He must have slept in his clothes last night, since he wore his usual outfit instead of his pink long-johns, and he pulled a cap over his head to hide the unruly state of his hair. Sure, he looked like hell that morning, with his rumpled clothes and unwashed skin, but each day just blended into the next anyway, and there was no use in making an extra effort when his day was just going to be as bleak and meaningless as the one before it.

Come to think of it, he couldn't even remember what he did yesterday, or the day before that, or any of the days before that one. That was how dull and grueling the life of a newsie was; a fellow spent every day of his life getting up early and breaking his back out there on the streets, and then when he got a little older he'd be doing the same thing, over and over again until he broke down with age or drank himself into his grave. One day was just like any other, and Skittery didn't waste time wondering how he had slept in his clothes as he trudged through the lodging house and tried to avoid all the boys who staggered their way to the washroom in varying states of sleepiness.

"It's gettin' colder, ain't it?" Blink remarked to Mush, rubbing his hands together for warmth. "That old coat of mine ain't gonna last another month out there!"

"Well maybe if ya didn't spend your earnings on that dancer girl of Medda's, you could buy yourself a new coat," said Mush.

The two of them started playfully shoving each other, looking far too cheerful for so early in the morning, and Skittery frowned when their words sank in. It really _was_ cold. Not just regular cold, but _bitter_ cold, and it gave Skittery the creeps because it reminded him far too much of that dream he woke up from.

"Say, Cowboy, we goin' down to the harbor today?" Race asked. He already had one of his cigars in hand and proceeded to light it as Jack grabbed his red bandana.

"I dunno, Race," said Jack. "Ain't we been goin' down there every day for a week now? The water don't look no different today than it did yesterday."

"Yeah, what's it matter though? I was thinkin' we'd start up a tradition or somethin', go down there regular like, ya know? 'Sides, the sellin' is always prime at the harbor; every newsie knows that."

Jack said something in reply, but Skittery wasn't listening anymore. First there was the mention of the cold, and now this talk about the harbor just had to crop up, as if everyone in the lodging house was trying to annoy Skittery on purpose or something. Did somebody decide it was Annoy Skittery Day and forget to tell him? Did somebody hear him talking in his sleep maybe, and decided it would be fun to spook him a bit? Well Skittery wasn't going to let himself get spooked, no matter how many times he was reminded of that damn dream. He shot a glare at Race, tugged his cap lower upon his head, and headed out the door of the bunk room without even bothering to splash water on his face or shave a bit.

It wouldn't make a difference anyway. He already looked and felt like something that belonged in an alley.

Besides, he was a step ahead of the other fellows. A whole lot of steps, in fact. He would be the first one to reach the nuns and get the hottest cup of coffee, and then he would be the first one at the distribution center and get a head start on selling papers.

Except he didn't really have an appetite, and as he tramped down the stairs and walked out into the street, he realized he wasn't in the mood for eating at all.

Well that was strange. Skittery knew he got into bad moods now and then, but he always got hungry no matter how lousy he felt. Hunger was a constant companion when you worked for pennies and didn't have a nice family to cook meals for you, and Skittery was always ready to scarf down some bread and coffee the moment he woke up, but this particular morning the thought of food made him feel... nothing.

Must be that dream again, ruining everything. Skittery couldn't get it out of his head, thanks to Blink and Race, and he had to stop and take a deep breath of air just to make sure he wasn't surrounded by water.

Nah, there wasn't any water in his lungs. Just the dirty air of New York, carrying the mingled scents of bakeries, butcher shops, and last night's rainfall. Or at least Skittery _thought_ it rained last night; it was so hard to tell when he could no longer keep track of which day was which, and what did it matter anyway? What mattered was that the air of New York was the same as it always was and sure, it was chilly enough to freeze a fellow's hands off, but there was no way he was drowning or choking or whatnot, no matter how filthy that air was.

Skittery spent so much time dawdling around and wondering about rainfall, he didn't walk very far and next thing he knew, the other fellows were marching out into the street, chattering and pushing each other and making more noise than necessary. There was Crutchy, hobbling away on that stick of his, going on in that nasally voice about something or other. Crutchy never knew how to shut up, even early in the morning, and Skittery supposed the poor guy had to make up for his bad leg somehow, so he ran his mouth as much as possible.

Didn't change the fact that everything that came out of his mouth was stupid, though.

There was Boots, caught between that awkward stage where he was no longer one of the little kids, but he wasn't one of the older boys either. Skittery remembered being that age, when dirty jokes didn't go over his head so much but he wasn't allowed to make those jokes himself, and girls started to look a little bit pretty but he was way too scared to talk to them. Yeah, those were some uncomfortable years for Skittery, but Boots seemed a hell of a lot more confidant than Skittery was at that age.

Skittery just wasn't a confidant guy in general, most days.

And then there was little Tumbler, struggling to keep up with the other fellows so he wouldn't end up with cold coffee and the last piece of bread. Skittery stood out on the sidewalk, close enough to hear his fellow newsies but too far removed to draw their attention, and he focused on Tumbler's small figure with a funny feeling in his chest. Seeing Tumbler always made him kind of sad, since kids so young shouldn't be out working the streets, but for some reason he felt even sadder and wondered if anybody out there in that great big city knew where Tumbler was or cared about him at all. Skittery didn't mind kids as much as most fellows did; in fact, he supposed he envied them a little, since they were all hopeful and didn't have enough experience to get all bitter over life yet.

Nah, Skittery didn't mind kids, and he especially didn't mind Tumbler, who was quieter than most kids and helped him sell more papers, since his pitiful little face drew in the rich older ladies who were willing to give them nickles without demanding change.

The thing was, on a day like this, when Skittery had gloom and doom and drowning on his mind, he wondered how a young kid like Tumbler ended up in the lodging house. Where were his parents at, if he even had parents? Who used to tuck him in at night, and who the hell let such an innocent kid go out onto the streets and sell papers among all the thugs and crooks of Manhattan? Skittery had never bothered to ask, and on a day like this he couldn't help wondering what would happen to Tumbler once Skittery left the lodging house. It was bound to happen someday, with Skittery getting older and all, and he didn't know why but the kid was pretty attached to him.

It made him awfully sad, standing there and watching Tumbler head off to work like a miniature adult, and he knew that they had all grown up before their time. Every last one them of them, Skittery included, and it was a good thing nobody bothered to notice him because he couldn't imagine saying a word to anybody without being dead honest.

Not that Skittery had a problem with being honest or anything, because he didn't. He just wasn't good at talking about feelings, and whenever the urge to talk about feelings _did_ take hold of him on rare moments, he made sure to clam up and walk off. He was more comfortable that way.

Skittery watched Tumbler disappear around a street corner, his faded orange shirt nothing but a recent memory, and he realized he wasn't in the mood for selling papers either. What was the point in making money when he wasn't hungry enough to buy any food? Besides, he was freezing his mitts off, despite the fact that it wasn't even late fall yet, and he supposed he was imagining things but he could have sworn he heard water gushing somewhere, like a street had flooded nearby and the water was just bubbling up all over the place, soaking the ground and spooking horses and drowning kids—

But no. There wasn't any water, and Skittery headed down the street without really knowing what direction he was headed in, or where he wanted to go. Hell, he didn't even feel like smoking a cigarette that morning and he supposed it was just one of those days, when life didn't feel worthwhile and the whole world seemed like a gray place that was full of dead ends. The headlines were bound to be depressing on a day like this, so he wasn't really missing out by choosing not to sell papers, and even if there _was_ a good headline, well... Now he was just fishing around for excuses, just like he usually did when he was trying to get out of something, and he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his thin trousers in hope of warming them up a bit.

They still felt like blocks of ice.

Skittery figured he was getting sick, with the chill and loss of appetite and all. It made perfect sense that on top of all the other problems life threw at him, he would get sick as well, and it was probably where those dreams had come from in the first place. There was a pub near the harbor that was always warm, no matter how chilly it was outside, and the owner was nice enough to let the newsies come in for a few minutes of relief, as long as they didn't bother anyone.

Yeah, the harbor again. Funny, wasn't it? But Skittery was too cold and tired to care about the harbor anymore, and he headed in that direction with his hands still in his pockets, wondering why he bothered to get up at all that morning. Oh well. It was too late to trek all the way back to the lodging house and besides, Kloppman was awfully sharp for an old man and would wonder why he wasn't out selling papers.

Skittery reached the harbor, but he didn't go into that warm little pub he had his heart set on. No, instead he stared out towards the water, where he saw a few of his fellow newsies gathered in a small group. There was Jack, Race, Mush, Blink, Crutchy... hell, even little Tumbler was there, holding tightly onto Race's hand. Either there was a free handout Skittery didn't know about, or something important had happened.

He walked closer, close enough to notice that Tumbler was crying. Now that just didn't sit well with Skittery, because nobody was allowed to make Tumbler cry if he could help it, and he was ready to open his mouth and demand an explanation when Jack spoke up.

"So, I don't normally keep track of the days, what with one day blurrin' into another and all," said Jack, looking out into the water. "But, well, I been keepin' track of _these_ days, and it's been a week now."

"We miss ya, buddy," said Mush, staring at the same patch of water. "All of us do."

"We even miss your bad mood," said Race. "Hope that wherever ya are now, Skitts, you're happier than here."

Skittery stared at the group of boys, eyes locked onto Tumbler's tear-streaked face, and suddenly he knew why he couldn't remember what he did yesterday, why he had slept in his clothes, and why he didn't feel like eating or selling papers. It occurred to him that he hadn't spoken to a single person since he woke up that morning, and nobody had looked directly at him, and he suddenly remembered that he hadn't said a word or eaten a thing for a whole week now.

A week ago he _did_ drown in the harbor, trying to save a little kid that had fallen in. The kid was fished out in time but Skittery didn't make it, and he gazed at the group of newsies who had gathered to mourn him, wishing that he didn't feel so cold and so very, very empty.

Well.

Being a ghost wasn't all it was cracked up to be, that was for sure.


End file.
